


100 Days to Find Love

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Cheesy, Drama & Romance, Ha lol look at me pretending to be able to write angst, Humor, I Tried, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mutual Pining, ONLY MENTIONS I SWEAR NONE OF LES AMIS, Oblivious Enjolras, Oblivious Grantaire, Or am I pretending?, Pining, Possible Character Death, Romance, This is way better than it looks I swear, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13011675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Grantaire wasn't supposed to live. Despite this, Death entered too quickly and made a vital mistake, so he is given a lifeline, Amore Inveniet; find love in one hundred days, or death.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are all loved xx

Courfeyrac exchanged an uneasy glance with Combeferre. The meeting had kick-started with it's usual activity; arguments. Marius was purposefully staring at his phone, pretending to text rapidly despite the entire group knowing that it had lost battery.  Many had long since stopped listening, such as Feuilly and Bahorel, as it would be the usual; Grantaire giving his typical cynical comments based on the current lack of excitement (a known sore subject for Enjolras), and Enjolras would snap and recoil, sending back brutal responses.

"Grantaire, for _once_ in your life, be _useful_." Enjolras snapped, raking a hand through his hair.

The Musain fell silent. Jehan stood up, chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor, hovering uncertainly besides his usual table. Bossuet bit the inside of his cheek and Joly wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably; the discomfort was in the unquestionable fact that the argument had reached the middle stage, and had become personal.

"Useful? Do you want me to storm down streets and demand change just for the sake of change? I'm not as entitled to believe I should do so." Grantaire retorted lazily, leaning back on his chair. Combeferre cringed at the choice of words. Only he could see Enjolras bristle and flinch away from the word  _entitled._

"You are _incapable_ of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death. Why are you even here?"

A sharp intake of breath from Jehan. They all knew why Grantaire was there- all except Enjolras, of course, which would make the question more difficult to answer, yet Grantaire was going so anyway. The argument had reached its final chapter. One of them was going to storm out, and, varying upon who it was, Jehan or Combeferre would race after them. By the grim set of Grantaire's lips, even Marius would be able to predict that Jehan would get more exercise than he originally planned.

"If you don't know, then there is no point in telling you. Fuck you, Enjolras."

With that, Grantaire stood up, heading to the door.

"Grantaire-" Jehan tried immediately, but his plea fell upon death ears; the door had swung backwards to close. He turned to Enjolras, eyes blazing, mouth set in a thin line, and was only slightly appeased when Enjolras physically flinched.

 

**

 

Fuck Enjolras, fuck his hair, fuck his eyes-

Grantaire sighed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his knuckles, already exhausted with that particular line of thought. Logically, he knew he shouldn't have baited Enjolras, but it was difficult not to do so; the man was idealistic, both in lifestyle and speech. It was the exact opposite Grantaire was and would be. Yet, even an optimist has his limits, and for Enjolras, it was Grantaire. It shouldn't be as gratifying as it was, to have Enjolras' blazing eyes upon him for a minute or so before Grantaire cracks under pressure and leaves, to bring the cynical side out of the blond through pointless argument.

Grantaire missed the days when he was in a bad mood due to crippling depression, instead of what Enjolras had said or done. He paused, checking that thought, and couldn't help but give in to the hysterical laughter bubbling up. No, Enjolras wasn't as bad as his depression, because there were days, rare days, when he left the Musain with a wide grin for doing  _something_ right, whether making posters for the next rally, or being a useful contribution to the group. He would be hit with Apollo's smile, one that he shares freely with the rest of the group, and that would be all he could think about for days following.

Until, of course, he did something to fuck up their tentative truce and they'd be back at square one.

He huffed bitterly. Everything he did was a subconscious attempt for Enjolras to notice him. He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket, ignoring the papery texture of past receipts and loose threads. In the distance, he could hear a car speed, engine wheezing in exhausted protest.

Naturally, he was going to Éponine's apartment. He would complain for a while, whine about life in general, contemplate getting drunk out loud, and Éponine would bitch about Enjolras whilst reminding him that he was now sober, for over a year now, and together they would gorge on junk food and watch chic flicks until midnight.

With that plan in mind, he crossed the road, sending a quick text to Éponine to confirm his plans, then pocketed his phone.

A car turned around the corner, tyres squeaking in resistance, and hurdled down the street.

He was hit with blinding headlights. His heart leapt into his throat. He stared, mesmerized by the lights. Eyes wide, he could only watch the vehicle race towards him. The world seemed to stop spinning, everything frozen into place. Grantaire was rooted to the ground, breath gone and all he could do was  _stare._

A few meters up, a figure walked onto the road and gazed directly at him.

The driver noticed the man further up, then Grantaire, and slammed on the breaks, swerving unsteadily down the road. The screech of tires destroyed his temporary hypnosis, and he raced onto the safety of the pavement, practically collapsing onto the wall. His breath came in short, shallow pants, palms damp, limbs weak and physical shaking.

The man continued to peer at him, and if he could focus on anything other than the pounding in his head, Grantaire would be bewildered by the clean cut suit that screamed importance, and gaunt features and pale skin that contradicted that claim. It appeared that the man had spent his money on apparel rather than food.

"Damn it. I've come early." The man sighed, tiredly wiping a leather gloved hand across his face. Grantaire was about to reply before an overwhelming feeling of sickness gripped him. He bent over, hands placed over stomach, gagging dryly. Eventually, his racing heart slowed, and he breathed in deeply, still leaning on the wall to support his weak legs.

The man just stood there, watching him curiously.

"Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not alright, I almost got got hit by a fucking car." Grantaire seethed, despite knowing that the man did nothing to contribute to his misfortune.

"Not almost, you should've."

Grantaire looked blankly at him, and the man gave a brief, amused glance at him, then leaned on the lamppost.

"What?" 

"You should've gotten hit by that car and died." The man elaborated, pulling out an old fashioned watch from his suit pocket. None of what the man said made sense, and Grantaire's jangled nerves did little to help.

" _What_?" Grantaire repeated. The man rolled his eyes.

"You, as a human, were destined to be slammed into by that particular car at this particular time. Your heart should have stopped beating twelve seconds ago, and I would have finished my job and left."

"What the fuck?"

"Indeed. It appears I was too early."

"Too early?"

"Yes."

"For what?"

"For your death."

There was a pause.

"What?" Grantaire stared blankly at the man, who looked exhausted from his questions.

"I  _am_ Death." There was a pause, and Grantaire considered if the man was on drugs, then wondered if he, himself was high. The man rolled his eyes.

"No, I do not have a scythe. No, I am not completely skeletal. I got bored of jumping out of bushes and chasing old people in my junior years. Black robes are very becoming on me, but I ripped my last set a century or so ago."

Finally, Grantaire found his words. "That's bullshit."

"No, this entire situation is, as you so eloquently put, bullshit. Do you know how behind schedule this puts me? About three minutes!"

"Three minutes is nothing, try twenty six years of wasted life."

"Well, you don't have to transport over twenty six lives spanning across the world in three minutes, do you?" The man snapped. Grantaire rolled his eyes, managing to be skeptical for a few seconds.

"You said you were death. Prove it."

"By killing something before it's time?"

"No! Do something... I don't know, Death like."

"What, by sneaking behind people and shouting 'ooga-booga' at them?" At Grantaire's unamused glare he huffed dramatically, once again checking his watch. He clicked his fingers. Nothing changed, but by his pleased look, Grantaire could tell the man had complied with the request.

"In exactly one minute, fourteen second's time, Jean Prouvaire will finally catch up to you. In the normal circumstances, he would discover your dead body, an ambulance or two, scarred irreversibly for life, the usual. However, things aren't normal, thanks to my subpar timing, so now we wait."

They waited together, Grantaire's still rapid-beating heart calming as he watched cars race past. His mind was thankfully blank, unable to formulate proper thoughts after his near death. He was pulled out of his empty thoughts when Jehan races towards them, suddenly stopping. Grantaire cast a look at the man. He seemed unimpressed with the entire situation. It was impossible that he was who he said he was, yet he knew Jehan, and he knew that Jehan would follow.

"Fuck, where is he?" Jehan pulled at his braid, spinning in a circle as he searched around for Grantaire. His eyes swept past Grantaire, biting his lip. He paused, fumbling for his phone and shakily typing in the passcode.

"Jehan?" Grantaire offered, approaching him. Jehan stared blankly at his face, showing no signs of recognition, or of even _seeing_ someone.

"No, not yet. Enjolras really fucked it up this time. I'm going to check his usual hideouts, then his apartment. Actually, Éponine's first. I'll tell you if I find him. Bye, Joly."

"He can't see me." Grantaire whispered, his hand waving in front of Jehan's face in shocked fascination. Jehan ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. He sighed again, closing their eyes, before walking  _through_ Grantaire and hurrying down the pavement. Grantaire stared.

"What just happened?"

"Your friend can't see you."

"Really? I thought he had gone temporarily blind, so it was only polite for me to use my  _life long turning-into-fucking-air_ skills to let him pass  _through_ me." Grantaire snapped. 

"Really, Grantaire, it's called Spirit Walking. Whenever you randomly shudder, it's probably because you've stepped through me." The man responded, and straightened out of his care-free lean. He stood on the middle of the pavement. A woman walked straight through him, then comically shuddered, drawing her coat up higher.

"Wow, that isn't creepy at all." Grantaire retorted, mentally trying to ignore all of the times he had done the same as that woman had.

"Sarcasm isn't becoming on you."

"Then what is? A car or two?"

The man sighed, and clicked his fingers once more. Grantaire felt his entire body constrict, as though he was being forced through a narrow box. For one brief, terrible second, he felt as though he was falling, before crashing upon something hard.

"If you're going to be sick, don't do so on me."

Grantaire scrambled up from an awkward heap on the floor to face the speaker. The man regarded him impassively.

"You really are Death." Grantaire whispered, staring at him carefully.

"Glad for you to finally notice. I prefer the name Malum, though. Less threatening."

"So. I was supposed to die."

"Yes."

"You were supposed to kill me."

"Not kill. More, carry your soul into The Next."

"I was supposed to die, yet I'm here."

"Yes."

"With you in my apartment."

"Yes."

He felt his legs wavering and collapsed onto the couch. Malum continued, pacing up and down the apartment.

"When I mess up, even once, it stops me from doing my job for over a month, especially with the amount of paperwork I have to sort out... Anyway. The Universe needs to solve this problem. Either, it gets rid of the glitch entirely." Malum stated, shooting a careful look at Grantaire, "Or Amore Inveniet."

"Love... Something. Something to do with love. Love... Hunt?"

"Close enough. Under direct translation, love _find_. That, or death."

"I mean, I kind of don't want to die right now." Grantaire frowned, then added, "Maybe come back in a month or two, then we'll be good to go."

The man stared at him blankly. "As charming as that anecdote is, I don't have time for this. One hundred days to find love, or the universe will correct the glitch."

"Find _love_? Is this some cheesy romcom? Holy shit, is this what my life has come to?"

"Yes."

"Fuck me."

"I'd rather you find someone else to do so in a hundred days. By the way, you can't tell anyone about this. Until then, Grantaire." With that, the man clicked his fingers and disappeared, leaving Grantaire to gape at thin air. 

"Fuck." Grantaire whispered under his breath, and gazed wistfully at his empty liquor cabinet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Days Until Amore Inveniet: Ninety Nine**

 

Grantaire awoke to loud knocking. He groaned, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to ease aching muscles that was an addition to sleeping on the couch. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his face, arm numb from him putting his weight on it whilst he slept. He opened one eye, and sluggishly glanced around the apartment.

_A gaunt man that was Death himself stood by his armchair. Two bright, blinding flashlights. Shouting, frustration, and storming out of The Musain. Enjolras' heated anger._

The memories hit him, and for a brief second, he was bewildered, mind reeling.

Then he scowled, prepared to see the wine bottles littered on his carpet. He glanced to the floor only to find the ugly shade of beige staring back. He sat up, experimentally clasping his hands together, surprised at the lack of protest in his arms. There was no headache, and the cloyingly sweet smell of the wine that he usually purchases was distinctively absent.

Grantaire grimaced. He was finally going insane. Without liquor to explain his sudden hallucination, the only other option was madness.

There was another loud knock.

"Coming!" He called, throat hoarse from dehydration. The knocking ceased. He sighed, plodding to the front door and undoing the latch.

Black eyes bore into his own.

"Good morning."

Grantaire stared at him for a few seconds, face impassive and thoughts spinning. The man stared back.

"No." Grantaire replied, slamming the door. There was a smart  _click,_ and the man appeared in front of him, blocking his jilted stride.

"I knew this would happen." Malum sighed, almost disappointed.

"Then why didn't you magically click your fingers and appear into my apartment in the first place?"

"It's rude to do that."

"Rude? So it's not rude to prepare to kill someone in one hundred days?"

"I don't kill people, and it's ninety nine days, not a hundred."

"Oh, fuck off!" Grantaire snarled, storming into the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the cabinet mirror. Puffy eyes, messy hair sticking up in different directions, and a dark bruise blossoming on his cheek that he wasn't quite sure how he got.

He looked like shit.

"You look like shit." Malum helpfully supplied from the doorway. Grantaire sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He turned on the hot water, then the shower.

Again, he closed the door in Malum's face, and this time, thankfully, the man took the hint and didn't appear.

Hot water spilled down his back and eased most of his tension. He had about three minutes before the water would become cold, and he planned on using all of that time. Maybe, if he waited long enough, Malum would get bored and leave. He dismissed the childish thought and reflected on what he had to do today. Call Jehan, procrastinate completing his artwork, then take the afternoon shift in The Seine. After working until late at night, he would purposefully avoid the Musain and crash Éponine's apartment, use up her WiFi, because he often needed a distraction. Working at a bar whilst in recovery was surprisingly a bad idea.

The water turned ice cold, and Grantaire ducked forwards in avoidance, painfully bashing his arm against the bathtub side.

"Bastard." He swore, rubbing his arm petulantly, and turned off the water supply. The cold water had jolted him wide awake, and he noticed, in his early morning daze, he had forgotten to bring clean clothes. He wrapped a soft towel around his waist, then opened the door.

Malum blinked at him.

"I didn't envision us having a discussion about your fate when you are... _Sky-clad_." He finished carefully. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sure you've seen worse."

"I have." Malum replied grimly. "It's part of the job." Grantaire sighed, running a hand across his tired face. He fixed Malum a frustrated look, one the he had learnt from Apollo himself.

"Why are you here?"

"To discuss rules of the  _Amore Inveniet_."

"Rules? Oh. Of course there are rules." Grantaire sighed, plodding to his room, trusting the man to follow.

"Quite so. For instance, platonic love isn't accepted, so you can't go to Éponine Thénardier or Jean Prouvaire."

"Basically, in ninety nine days, I'm dead." Grantaire translated, rooting through his draws to find something decent to wear.

"You don't know that." Malum reminded lightly. Grantaire gave him an unimpressed quirk of his eyebrow.

"Seriously, you might as well kill me now."

"I can't. You've already accepted _Amore Inveniet,_ there's no going back now. It would be killing before your time." 

There was a pause.

"So you _do_ kill people."

"I don't, but I can. There's a difference." Malum replied, bored. Grantaire could hear the thin lines of exasperation.

"Sure. What exactly am I going to do in the next few days?"

"Either fall in love and get someone to love you, or try to have no regrets when you die."

"Jesus, that's a bit blunt. You should write Greetings cards."

"You're not the first to say that." He said, thin lips briefly upturning, before he continued. "The second rule of Amore Inveniet is that unrequited love does not count either."

"Then I'm dead twice over." Grantaire replied, pulling out light blue jeans. On closer inspection, flecks of purple and red littered the fabric. Close enough. 

Malum ignored his comment.

"The third rule is that you cannot tell anybody about this event. Even if you are a day from dying, you must remain silent. The last rule of Amore Inveniet is that I can't help you."

"You can't help me." Grantaire repeated.

"No."

"I wasn't exactly counting on your help."

"Nor should you."

"Right. Anything else?"

"Not right now. However, I must leave. I am going to see a dog about a man's friend." 

 

**

 

The Seine was always crowded, especially in the winter, where a passer-by would take refuge in the warm shelter, away from biting cold and lashing rain. Grantaire entered the employee's enterance, which had more staff than usual, and waved to Cosette. Upon seeing him, a smile lit up her face, and she hurried towards him. The smile promptly dropped.

"Oh, Taire, what happened?" She asked, tracing the bruise on his cheek with light fingertips. He shrugged.

"I don't know." He replied with honesty. Cosette looked him dead in the eyes, frowning, untill she sighed.

"You need to be more careful."

"I will, I'm a grown man." He said, then, to Cosette's glare, hastily added, "Thanks for looking out for me."

"You're welcome. Come on, it's a busy night and I need you to protect me if anyone gets too rowdy."

"We both know that you'd be able to destroy everyone in this bar twice over." Grantaire snorted. Cosette smiled innocently, and shoved his name tag into his hands.

It was later into the night, five hours, to be precise, when Cosette finished her shift but stayed behind to talk to him, the questioning began. Her light eyes fixed him to the spot.

"You seem distracted."

"Yep." Grantaire pulled out a beer bottle and handed it to the man two seats away from Cosette.

"I was talking to Marius earlier." She added lightly, sipping her soft drink with an overly elaborate bendy straw. The searching gaze she was giving him was maintained, and Grantaire resisted the urge to wriggle uncomfortably like a child that had been caught in wrongdoings.

"He actually speaks to you now? Last time you two were together all he could do was blush and stutter. It was adorable, though. He was like a lost little puppy." Grantaire grinned, hoping that Cosette would take bait on the subject of Marius.

She didn't.

"We talked. He told me about last night."

"Okay."

A moment passed, and Cosette absentmindedly twirled her straw.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"He's an idiot sometimes."

"Sometimes."

"Marius also said that after you left Enjolras got a stern talking to from Jehan."

"Okay."

"Grantaire, I'm afraid, if you continue talking so much, and with such description, liveliness and cheer, I might actually be knocked off my seat from secondhand elation." Cosette deadpanned, and, to her credit, didn't grin untill after Grantaire snorted.

"Indeed you might, Cosette. Did Monsieur Pontmercy also say that this time, it was actually my fault?" He asked, opening a bottle of water and taking a sip.

"He said that Enjolras was acting like a fucking arse." Cosette said bluntly, causing Grantaire to splutter.

"He did not!" Grantaire exclaimed, still coughing at the outrageous remark. Cosette maintained a straight face, then cackled.

"Okay, maybe I said that. The point still stands, though."

"Apollo didn't say anything that wasn't true."

"I'm not sure what he said, but I know Enjolras. He's a fucking drama queen, what he says when he's pissed off he never means."

"I don't know, it sounded like he meant that."

"I have evidence on the contrary."

"What? What did you do?"

"Nothing." Cosette smiled sweetly, and Grantaire wasn't fooled for a second.

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not, but I'm going to tell you this anyway: imagine this. Enjolras, but _drunk_."

" _No fucking way._ " Grantaire whispered. It felt as though he had unearthed hidden knowledge, and it's contents were too strange to be fully understood by mere mortals. Cosette nodded, eyes wide and shining with honesty.

" _Yes fucking way_. It happened. I was there."

"Pictures or it never happened."

"Nice try, I'm using it for blackmail. It's just something to remind people that Enjolras isn't an unreachable god to be worshiped from a distance, _Grantaire_."

"Oddly specific reminder, _Cosette_."

"Yep." She said, casting a significant look at him. "Just... Be careful, Taire, don't get hurt, and don't allow him to hurt you." With that, Cosette slid off the barstool opposite him and gave him an hug. He leaned over the counter, the corner digging into his stomach, and raised his arms in awkward reciprocation. 

"I will." Grantaire promised. Cosette sent him a smile, and turned to leave the bar. She paused, holding the door open and allowing a cold wind inside.

"Oh, and Grantaire?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't avoid the Musain. Avoiding him never works out." With that statement, she exited and closed the door behind her, cutting off the cool draft. Despite this, her statement hung in the air and suffocated the area.

"Barman, another." A gruff man called, gesturing to the empty glass of gin, and Grantaire sighed. This shift in particular seemed long. He refiled the glass, and pretended to look busy by wiping the wooden counters with a towel, mind reeling.

 

**

 

"Éponine, open up." Grantaire called up to an opened window. There was a pause where Grantaire shifted his weight, clutching the container close to his chest. Éponine stuck her head out, dark hair being gently thrown back by a soft breeze. Her eyes searched for him, and, after a few seconds, she was able to pick him out.

"Who are you?" Éponine asked, looking directly at him, which meant it was going to be one of _them_ days. He sighed.

"It's me." He shouted back.

"Who's me?" She replied, looking bewildered.

"Grantaire."

"Really? For starters, you said your name was 'me' a few seconds ago. Also, Grantaire has moved to _Mexico_." She yelled the last word especially loud, causing him to cringe slightly. Grantaire gave her a slow clap for her theatrical performance.

"Ha, ha, ha. Hysterical. Open up, 'Ponine, I'm cold."

"Hi, cold." Éponine immediately responded, then paused, narrowing her eyes. "How do you know my name?" She asked, voice hinting at a threat.

"For fuck's... Éponine, just let me in!" 

"Grantaire moved to Mexico a day ago when he didn't pick up my calls. If you were really him, you'd apologize for ignoring me."

"Fine. I'm sorry for ignoring you." Grantaire huffed. Éponine frowned, then her eyes widened. Comically, she rubbed at her eyes, as though she couldn't quite believe he was there.

"Holy shit, Grantaire? Is that you? It's freezing outside! Come in, Jesus, my apartment is a mess! I haven't seen you in-"

"Just open the fucking door!"

"Fine, Jesus."

The door clicked open, and he was met with dark brown eyes that glittered with mirth. Éponine grinned, stepping back to allow enterance.

"I brought food." Grantaire announced, raising the cake up high. At the word _food_ , he could hear scrambling from upstairs. Éponine looked at it as though it was probably poisoned.

"It's probably poisoned."

"Who cares if it's poisoned?" Gavroche asked from the top of the stairs. He hurried down, joined by Alzelma seconds later.

"What is that?" Alzelma asked, small nose scrunched up in distaste. She got on her tip-toes, leaning against her sister for support.

"Poison." Éponine answered, and winked at him when Grantaire shot her a glare. He lowered the box enough for the two children to see.

"Carrot cake."

"Where's the cake? It looks like an explosion at an icing factory." Éponine asked, reaching out to poke the box.

"The cake is probably hidden under my hoodie, which you _stole_." Grantaire replied cheerfully, wincing slightly when she subtly kicked his calf.

"And I will never give it back because it's comfortable. Midgets, take the food into the kitchen and split it  _evenly_." 

The pair exchanged calculating looks in a language that was only open to them for three seconds, and it appeared that Alzelma won; she raised her eyebrows, and Gavroche sighed, taking the container.

"What was up with yesterday? It isn't like you to text, then bail." Éponine asked as soon as the kids had gone.

"The usual. Me being an arse, Apollo being Apollo. I don't know what I was thinking."

"On the scale, how bad?"

"A decent seven point three." 

Éponine let out a low whistle, clasping a hand on his shoulder in sympathy.

"Damn. In the den, I've been stashing junk food again. Gav knows, but can't find any, and it's driving him insane."

"Right. Let's go indulge in unhealthy coping methods."

At midnight, after raiding the snack draw and two terribly acted movies Grantaire left Éponine's house. The twenty minute walk was cold and uneventful. He collapsed on his bed and was asleep in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the references. *Wipes away proud tear*.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos, they really do help!! :) Thank you PessimisticTM and rosewsly for such nice comments. Thank you!!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Days Until Amore Inveniet: Ninety Eight**

 

Grantaire awoke at early morning, blinking sluggishly at the reddish hue of sunlight and contemplating going back to sleep. He tried to roll on his sides, but as he was already on the corner of the bed, he promptly fell, dragging his duvet with him. After that, there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. Sighing, he got up, wrapped the duvet around him to form a warm cocoon and plodded into the bathroom in order to get ready for the day ahead. After, he sighed, shoulder vaguely sore.

Hunger was gnawing at his stomach, so he set the gas on his stove to mark five. He retrieved a pan, preparing fried eggs and toast for himself. 

"You're taking this entire situation rather well." Malum commented, perched on the armchair. Grantaire startled, spinning on his heel and holding a spatula out in challenge. Malum lazily flicked his hand, and the spatula was placed back on the frying pan. With a click, the stove was no longer supplied with gas. Grantaire scowled as Malum surveyed the room curiously, as though there was a hidden message to find. He was surprised to see that, instead of banging on the door, Malum appeared right into the armchair, and had arrived after Grantaire had prepared for the day ahead. The man was as gaunt and pale as ever, and the dark suit did nothing but underline this fact. His hair was darker than black, if possible, and Grantaire briefly wondered about the type of mustache he would have.

Probably magnum.

"Sure, I guess. What do people usually do when you tell them they're going to die in one hundred days?" He asked, flopping on his couch and facing the man.

"It's happened four times. Five, including you, so there's not enough data to compile a norm."

"Mistakes never happen." Grantaire replied, trying to mirror Malum's slightly gravelly, low voice. Malum cocked an eyebrow.

"They don't. The Universe likes change, and enjoys watching love even more. I don't think any of this is a mistake on Their behalf."

"Nice."

"Sometimes, yes. It gets exhausting, running around. One would think that, in travelling so much, I could make a friend. If not a friend, a companion."

"You've never made a friend?"

"People curse my name, but I have. Once. Awful incident. Disheartening."

"Damn, I won't ask, then. Why are you here?"

"To check on you."

"Every day?"

"Not every day, so to speak. For the first five days, yes. Then it's weekly, unless I am not so inclined. It's important to check in on people in an  _Amore Inveniet._ " Malum explained as though it were obvious, and Grantaire refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Naturally, why did I even ask?" Grantaire replied, and Malum raised one dark eyebrow.

"How do you feel right now?"

"Fine?"

"Okay." Malum replied, pulling out his old-looking watch. "I'll give you one day." Grantaire frowned, waiting for him to elaborate, before realising he wasn't going to do so.

"A day? For what? No, you're going to tell me. Stop playing games, it isn't funny-!"

Malum clicked his fingers and disappeared with a sharp snap.

"Bastard." Grantaire snapped at thin air, before hurling a nearby cushion at the area the man used to occupy. If anything, it made him feel slightly better about himself.

 

**

 

Les Amis meetings were on every Saturday, Monday and Tuesday. Since Grantaire was skipping this meeting out of stubbornness and a desire to avoid Enjolras' beautiful yet hostile glare, he had taken a double shift at the Seine, and had found himself perpetually, woefully bored. The minutes slugged by. The most exciting moment was when Grantaire, on break, spotted a cat that looked vaguely like Marius, but when he approached it, the cat skittered away.

Instead of being productive, he found himself thinking of Enjolras. Not for the first time, he considered leaving Les Amis entirely. The only people that would miss him would be Bossuet, Joly, Jehan and maybe Bahorel, but he would often meet up with them outside meetings. With Enjolras, it was different. The man had nothing but distaste, and occasionally, even worse,  _pity_  for him. Perhaps, if he left, it would be better for both of them. Enjolras wouldn't have to deal with him and his remarks, and Grantaire might be able to get over the blond.

He didn't believe the last statement to be possible, but in order to live after  _Amore Inveniet,_ he would have to. He frowned, suddenly hit with regrets. He wouldn't get to see Éponine's siblings grow up and mature, or see Cosette's wedding day. He wouldn't be able to live for Combeferre and Courfeyrac's wedding day (if Courfeyrac would _finally_ propose to his boyfriend of seven years, because Combeferre was stunningly nervous about these situations). He wouldn't live to see different parts of the world. 

The regret was too sharp and his jaw twitched. He relaxed his hands, which were clenched into fists, and tried to ignore the petulant voice whining about unfairness.

As the afternoon turned darker, it brought flocks of loud and cheerful students, several painfully underage. He cringed powerfully when a particularly small boy, about Gavroche's age, approached the bar. In the distance, his friends sent him thumbs up, giggling amongst themselves.

"Five beers." The boy asked, his voice rather high pitched. He placed thirty euros on the bar counter. Grantaire raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"When is your birthday?"

"February the second."

"What year?"

"Every year."

"Nice try."

The boy huffed, then purchased peanuts, casting frustrated looks at Grantaire. He busied himself until Cosette would arrive and join him, sweeping the floors and wiping down tables. It was dull, tiresome work, and every second he wished he was at the Musain.

"You're early." Cosette said with surprise.

"Earlier than you, you mean. You're _late_."

"I went to the Musain. For a catch up with Musichetta, of course."

"Okay." Grantaire replied evenly, even though he was brimming with questions. Cosette smiled with understanding.

"The entire time, Enjolras was staring at the door, looking like a kicked puppy. He was so distracted he didn't notice Courfeyrac add glitter glue to his notes."

"What got Apollo like that?"

"The lack of his favourite person."

"I didn't know Combeferre didn't show up today, that's not like him."

"Grantaire." Cosette said, and Grantaire took that as a warning.

"Fine. Though, you did stretch the statement by saying _favourite person._ You exaggerate."

"Yep. That's me. Cosette Exaggeration Valjean. You can't find a more exaggerating person than me."

"Éponine exists. Nice try."

"Oh, how is Éponine? I haven't seen her in years!"

"Years?"

"Months."

"Months?"

"Days. Fine, hours. Fine! Like, twenty minutes ago. We had a girls' night out and Chetta was gossiping about Joly and Bossuet. She's got it bad."

"So have they. You went to the Musain for a girls night out? 'Ponine hates the area." He mused, remembering the last time Cosette tried to drag Éponine to the bar without her bailing _("It's loud and crowded, 'specially for a goddamned coffee shop. I'm not used to it, so I'm not going." Éponine scowled, ignoring Cosette's pout.)_

"Yes. We did go to the Musain, and Éponine was there, and we talked about cute boys the entire time." Cosette replied, though her chin was raised a bit; she was hiding something.

"You have an excellent poker face." Grantaire remarked, and Cosette's expression remained painfully neutral.

"It comes with years of practice." She replied lightly. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to give anything away, Grantaire dropped the subject. Éponine was likely going to tell him, anyway.

 

**

 

"Yeah, we went to the Musain to spy on Enjolras." She shrugged, not a bit ruffled or embarrassed, refusing to look up from her phone. Grantaire stared.

"'Ponine!" He exclaimed, nudging her with his foot. She scowled.

"What?" Éponine matched his tone of voice indignantly, and pushed his shoulder when he turned to glare at her.

"You don't spy on people!"

"No, Grantaire, darling,  _you_ don't spy on people."

There was a pause in which Éponine glanced up from her phone and gave a toothy grin. She flicked her hair, tapping something out on the phone.

"Want to hear what I found out?" She asked. Grantaire paused as though the answer to that question wasn't already there.

"Obviously." He rolled his eyes. Éponine glanced at him, brown eyes warm with amusement, before she whispered.

"I think he likes you."

"Bullshit."

"No, Grantaire." Éponine replied, eyes wide, all traces of possible sarcasm or insincerity gone. "He _likes_ you, he's just emotionally constipated."

" _Sure_."

"Really. He asked me where you were."

"That doesn't mean he likes me, 'Ponine."

"Maybe." Éponine mused, hand under chin. She tapped something into her phone, and turned it off.

 

 

**Days Until Amore Inveniet: Ninety Seven**

 

It wasn't until the third day into the deal that the sheer gravity of the situation settled. He woke up feeling  _off,_ his mind repeating the words  _death, regret_ and  _Amore Inveniet,_ and there was a distinct feeling of sickness. When Malum entered his apartment with a smart  _snap,_ he panicked.

"I'm going to die in  _ninety seven days._ " Grantaire paced around his living room, hands shaking.

"Grantaire, calm down." Malum spoke calmly, which only caused Grantaire to become more agitated.

 _"Calm down_? I'm going to _die_ because _nobody could love me_ , how can I _calm down_?" He snapped, turning to the man, to Death himself, the person that was going to kill him.

 _"Sit down and breath_!" Malum ordered, and the sharpness of his voice compelled Grantaire into obeying the command. His breath came in short gasps and his vision was blurred. It wasn't until he could taste salty tears did he realise that he was crying.

"You're upset." Malum breathed, eyes widened in alarm. Grantaire furiously wiped at his eyes, scowling in frustration. Malum flailed his hands shifting his shoulders uncomfortably. He awkwardly stepped besides Grantaire, and cleared his throat.

"There, there." He put a cold hand on Grantaire's back.

"I'm going to die in ninety seven days." He repeated, voice raw.

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. If anyone doesn't know, it's you. You barely know me."

"I know everything that is going to happen in the world, when it's going to happen and how." 

"Then am I going to die?" 

"...I can't tell you."

"Fuck."

"Just don't give up." 

With a soft sigh and a click of his fingers, Malum left the apartment, leaving Grantaire to stare at blank space.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malum = Turkish for inevitable.

The day passed in an unintelligible blur to Grantaire, and, for once, he didn't care about the concerned looks casted at him by Cosette, or the unsubtle yet somehow conspicuously well-meaning insults from Éponine that were meant to bait him into a conversation. 

 

_("You look like shit, did your makeup die?"_

_"No, my makeup's on strike."_

_"Enjolras would be proud."_

_At the mention of his name, Grantaire flinched. Éponine had clicked her tongue, and the subject was dropped after a brief tapping on her phone)._

 

He couldn't sleep.

So he did what he usually did whenever a random bout of insomnia struck: draw. Even though he knew that he was going to regret not attempting to rest more in the mornings, he sat cross-legged at his desk, retrieving his notebook from the draw. The notebook itself was cheap, spiral bound and therefore constantly digging into his left hand as he drew. The paper was plain, but there was hardly any sheets contained in it; countless failures and frustrations on his behalf had lightened the weight.

Yet, despite this, there were a few drawings that he held dear, and he kept them hidden away in his apartment. The shaded and grinning face of Éponine, a cigarette elegantly perched between her fingers. The soft pastel colours of a smiling Jehan, after a particularly intricate addition of flowers (added by Courfeyrac) to his already complex braid. Bahorel and Feuilly leaning against a wall, sharing a joke that was only between them. Cosette, after their first meeting, equipped with sharp mind and an even sharper humour that glowed restlessly in her eyes.

The sketch of Apollo himself, one that he constantly tired over for far longer than a day.

At this, his lips gave a dissatisfied twitch. It wasn't through lack of effort that the image of Apollo wasn't quite perfected. He had tried countlessly to draw high cheekbones, sharp eyes, full lips, angelic features. It was never good enough, as though he was describing colour to a blind man. Never quite doing it properly, as there was no way to describe something so amazing that you were gifted with.

Giving a slight huff, he turned the page once more, and onto the half completed shadings of Musichetta laughing, head tilted back, and eyes glittering with mirth.

Hours passed, mostly consisting of Grantaire trying to perfect the dark shade of her skin tone, almost getting it correct, and messing up somehow (too light, too harsh, pencil strokes visible), then rubbing the lead out and starting again. He finally completed her eyes and the skin around it, and, satisfied with his admittedly slow progress, would return to bed, and rest would appear easily.

 

 

**Days Until Amore Inveniet: Ninety Six**

 

 

He awoke to hearing a rustling sound inside of his room. Immediately, he was on edge, mentally thinking of all the heavy, blunt things in his rooms that could be turned into makeshift weapons. The lamp besides his bedside cabinet seemed a good idea, and he reached out to grasp it.

"Don't attack me, Grantaire. It's a bad idea." A vaguely gravelly voice mused, and Grantaire startled. He scowled when he recognised the pitch, and opened his eyes to face the intruder.

"Malum, you bastard, you scared me." Grantaire snapped. Malum didn't respond, busy looking at something by his desk. To Grantaire's embarrassment, it was his open notebook. Malum didn't even spare a glance at him, fingers trailing the current open page. 

"Who is she?" He eventually asked. Grantaire sighed, rolling out of bed and plodding to where Malum directed his attention. He frowned.

"That's Éponine." 

"Thénardier, the girl." He mumbled under his breath, eyebrows drawn tightly together, lips pinched. The seriousness was too unnerving, so Grantaire attempted to lighten it.

"No, Éponine Thénardier, the attack helicopter."

Malum shot him a glare, and he threw his hands up innocently. His frustrated look was quickly replaced by one of somber penance, and his gaze was once again directed at the drawing. It was rather alarming to him.

"You recognise her." Grantaire said, and it wasn't a question.

"It can't be. I can't of, otherwise... The name..." He whispered, and Grantaire began to feel nervous.

"Malum?" 

At this, Malum appeared to snap out of his thoughts. He gave Grantaire a smooth smile, eyes still distracted, and closed the notebook with a snap.

"Nothing, I assure you."

After years of practice with Éponine, Grantaire knew when to pick his battles, and dropped the subject. Casting a bewildered glace at the man, he instead opted to ask:

"Why are you in my room?"

Malum seemed to shuffle his feet sheepishly for a second, before he continued his impassive stance. 

"You didn't answer the door, and it isn't like you to not hear my arrival."

"I didn't hear." Grantaire replied, then paused when he reflected on Malum's words. "What time is it?"

"Around half twelve."

He cursed. Half twelve was far later than he usually stayed asleep, the average waking time being six or seven in the morning. It appeared the impromptu late night had left him more tired and strained than he originally thought.

"I guess I'm not going to work, today, then."

"Maybe you could spend the day doing things you usually wouldn't."

"Die with no regrets, right." Grantaire muttered under his breath, scrubbing the back of his hand over his face. When he opened his eyes again, Malum was gone.

 

 

**

 

The day was spent in vigorous procrastination.

Instead of finishing his artwork, he opted for cheerful avoidance by doing things like finishing the book he had started over a year ago, or cleaning the entire apartment- he appeared to come full circle. After rearranging his books in a rainbow coloured ordering system, sorting out his laundry and finally clearing his overly crowded email, he was left with the dull ache of overwhelming boredom.

He spent half an hour browsing on his phone when the door knocked. It was a soft pattern, similar to a melody of a song Grantaire could swear he had heard before but couldn't place. There was a pause, then the knocking resumed, with a different melody.

_Jehan._

He undid the latch and opened the door.

"Good afternoon." Jehan nodded. His voice was overly cautious and polite, which sent alarm bells ringing in his head.

"Hey, Jehan." Grantaire replied, offering him a small quirk of the corner of his lips. At that, Jehan let out a defeated sigh, looking at Grantaire like he was a particularly disappointing teenager, which caused Grantaire to avoid eye contact and shift his weight.

"I haven't seen you in days, and that's not like you." Jehan finally said, small traces of pain leaking into his voice. Grantaire was hit with an overwhelming feeling of guilt.

"You know why I haven't showed up."

"I do." Jehan allowed, before adding, "It doesn't mean we can't talk."

"I know-"

"Do you?" Jehan asked sharply, which startled Grantaire into a brief silence, because, truthfully, he _didn't_. Enjolras was the reason he had met Jehan, Courfeyrac, and everyone else in Les Amis; the only people he knew were Éponine and Cosette, and after Cosette dragged him to the Musain, his small group of friends tripled over night. His lack of response made Jehan purse his lips in frustration, so he quickly replied.

"Of course I do, Jehan. I just don't want Enjolras to kick me out of the Musain."

Jehan lifted up his chin, seeing through the half-lie. " _Life is the game that must be played, this truth at least, good friends, we know_."

" _So live and laugh, nor be dismayed as one by one the phantoms go_." Grantaire finished the quote with him, and Jehan gave him a significant look.

"He always says stuff he doesn't mean. When he gets riled up, it destroys his brain-to-mouth filter. Whether you like it or not, Enjolras does want you there. He looked completely and utterly lost when you didn't show up."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true."

"Sure."

"Look. We're all going to Courfeyrac's place for movie night, to watch something, but it's more of a social gathering. It was going to be just Les Amis, but Marius is bringing Cosette, so Éponine'll be welcome to join."

Grantaire paused, looking at Jehan's calm face.

"Do I actually have a choice in this?" He asked, even though they both knew he would show up anyway.

"Of course you don't. I'll pick you and Éponine up in two hours."

 

**

 

"So." Éponine began, sounding so exasperated it was a wonder she didn't suddenly morph into Grantaire's mother (he cringed at the disconcerting mental image), "You and your confused ass crush has landed us into a social situation."

"Yes."

"Bastard." She cursed, raking her hand through dark hair. "Did you have a choice?"

"No."

"Right." There was a pause, in which the pair regarded eachother. "So, what're you going to do?" She asked, sudden frustration disappearing at an alarming rate as she tapped her (deadly) acrylic nails across a wooden table.

"Show up?" Grantaire offered. Éponine nodded, looking at Grantaire for elaboration.

"Then leave when it's socially acceptable." Éponine glowered at him.

"After a kiss and make up with Enjolras."

"I can go as far as looking at Enjolras. Everything else is a side affect."

"Don't worry, darling, you got me. I'm adept at pining after people, I'll help."

 

**

 

True to his word, by two hours, Jehan had cajoled the pair into his old Ford. Éponine had called shotgun, so Grantaire was awkwardly sat in the back with at least twenty plant pots.

"Why the hell are there so many flowers?" Grantaire asked, after having to dive in order to save a precariously perched chrysanthemum from falling. Jehan made serious eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. 

"Flowers are friends, not food." He whispered. Grantaire snorted, pretending to bite on the lavender closest to him. At Jehan's scandalised gasp, Éponine slapped her head in exasperation, muttering something like _nerds_ under her breath. Finally, Jehan pulled up outside a rather small house. Grantaire trailed after Éponine and Jehan, hands in pockets, and shuffled his feet awkwardly when Éponine knocked with three sharp taps of her knuckles. 

"I'll get it!" A voice called. The door was opened to reveal a broadly grinning Courfeyrac, which set off Grantaire's mental alarm.

"Combeferre's palace of promiscuity. Spank you for stopping by." He said, loud enough for everyone inside the house to hear. Jehan choked, hand over his mouth and eyes wide with amusement. There was a loud bark of laughter (Grantaire recognised it as Bahorel) and the sound of something glass clattering.

"Oh my fucking - Courfeyrac!" Combeferre shouted.

"What?" He asked over his shoulder in indignant innocence.

"Just let them in, Jesus!"

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, muttering something about never having any fun under his breath, then opened the door fully. Jehan headed to the room on the left, so Éponine followed with Grantaire in tow. Bahorel and Feuilly were curled up on the tan loveseat in the corner, having a serious debate about who out of the pair would win in a fight. 

Combeferre ducked out of what Grantaire assumed was the kitchen. He hurled a spatula at Courfeyrac, which Courfeyrac caught with an impressive flick of his hand and an air of practiced ease. Courfeyrac grinned and proceeded to slap the plastic loudly against his palm and winked at Combeferre, who's glare never left his face.

"What're we watching?" Éponine asked, awkwardly stood in the corner of the room. Grantaire felt a surge of sympathy; she rarely showed up to social gatherings, and was therefore unused to Combeferre and Courfeyrac's house. He gestured to the couch besides him, and she grinned thankfully, settling down.

"What do you think we're watching?" Feuilly asked, glancing up, now sprawled across Bahorel and not caring about his huffs of half-hearted protest.

"Princess Bride." Jehan, Grantaire and Courfeyrac toned together. Éponine's lips quirked up at the corners. There was a knock at the door.

"No!" Combeferre shouted, hurrying out from the room to answer before Courfeyrac could move. He pouted, crossing his arms in am over petulant gesture as Combeferre rushed out the room to answer the door. Éponine exchanged uneasy looks with him, then hastily grabbed a ugly but soft purple throw and wrapped it around her. Grantaire felt a rush of sympathy - unknown environments always made Éponine feel anxious, and he noticed her eyes flicking to visible exits, a habit she picked up after sixteen years of her parents.

The door opened, revealing an impassive faced Combeferre. Apollo trailed behind him, then glanced, equally unreadable as Combeferre. His eyes found Grantaire, and they made eye contact. Grantaire forgot to breathe.

"Grantaire." Enjolras said, biting his lip. The mass of purple twitched besides him, and Éponin revealed her eyes, which were rapidly darting back and forth.

"Do we have any popcorn?" Courfeyrac whispered, hovering around the kitchen door.

"No. Away from there, and don't set fire to anything." Combeferre replied in equally hushed tones, subtly watching the awkward exchange of words.

"Good evening, Apollo." Grantaire replied, and didn't notice the way Enjolras stiffened at the knickname. Éponine's fingernails were digging into his bicep. He failed to subtly dislodge her, as it only caused her grip to tighten.

"He's nervous." Éponine hissed in his ear. Grantaire ignored her, continuing to stare (gape) at the blond, who looked calm and prepared and definitely  _not_ nervous as ever. He briefly wondered if Enjolras' eyes were always _that_ blue and ignored the instinctive need to hide himself from the piercing gaze.

"How are you?" Enjolras asked.

"Dandy." Grantaire replied, then tried not to cringe at his choice of words. There was a muffled snigger from the mass of purple besides him, and he tried to will himself invisible like Malum was somehow able to do.

"Good." Enjolras replied, eyes not leaving Grantaire's face, as though if he looked away Grantaire would disappear.

At that moment, there was one light knock, then a hesitation. Another two quick knocks. Grantaire tried not to relax as Marius (it had to be Marius, who else had such an awkward and unsure knock?) had such perfect timing. Enjolras glanced behind him, calm and collected as ever, then joined Courfeyrac, who was leaning forward on a couch opposite Bahorel and Feuilly.

Combeferre answered the door, and, as predicted, was followed into the living room by Cosette and Marius, who joined the couch he and Éponine sat.

"Darling, stop gawking at Enjolras." Éponine hissed in his ear, voice thankfully low but not enough for Cosette to hear.

"Play hard to get." Cosette added, voice equally hushed. Grantaire shot her a glare, and she batted her eyelashes at her in innocence.

"No, I won't play anything. 'Ponine, stop being a blanket hog and give me some." Grantaire replied, then tugged on the soft fabric for good measure. Éponine rolled her eyes, but complied and Grantaire was given the warm material.

"You two look very... Close." Cosette whispered, wiggling her eyebrows, then giggled when Éponine smacked her lips, ignoring the horrified look she was given.


End file.
